Up Front
UP FRONT
TRAVELING RIGHT
Allan Girdler
When we got to the hotel Peter Egan gave me a sermon, in my own words. “Y’know, for a man of your age, with your job responsibilities and all those kids and poor night vision . . . you were cooking along pretty good back there."
Guilty. In fact, I told him, when we rolled up to the stop light that marks the end of the sporting highway and the return of civilization, I had reflected on our ride and told myself, as I told him. “That was really dumb.“
“Yeah," he says, “but fun.“
“Yeah.“
Patient readers will recall that on last year's occasion of the Laguna Seca races I outsmarted myself. Bluffed by the gas shortage and the need to get home that night and make the 400 mi. on one tank I had borrowed a sensible little import sedan, diesel power, air conditioning. It was the most frustrating and boring journey in my experience.
For 1980's races. I was ready. Fuel is once again for sale and the longterm Honda 750F was rigged; low bars, sports fairing, high-performance exhaust system, and a Vetter tank bag so new that not even Craig Vetter has one yet. (“Where'd you get that?” he asked. “Did my brother give it to you? He hasn't sent mine yet.“) Last year 1 didn't leave until the work was done. This year Peter and I rolled out on Friday morning. Does anybody ever get so mature that they lose the thrill of playing hookey? We haven't. Just riding
through the morning rush hour was fun because all those poor drab souls in the other lanes were on their way to shop or office or classroom while we, grinning ear to ear, were going to the races.
The first half of the ride was plain old highways. We stopped for two friends and then got into the best part, the winding, rising and falling, narrow and challenging two-lane road along the ocean.
Everywhere, motorcycles. All going the same direction, in the same mood, headed for the same place. Got so you couldn't wave, just nod, and every time there was a stop all the riders of the cafes, customs, dressers, classics, from all countries, walked around and admired bikes and noticed each other’s modifications and asked intelligent questions. There can't be another sport in which so many people have so much knowledge.
We stopped for dinner at what was supposed to be a hippie joint. (You think it's safe to leave the gear on the bikes?” “C'mon, man, these are hippies. They don’t believe in material concerns." The prices belied this, but nothing was taken, so perhaps the hip spirit lives.)
Then it was dark, we had some miles to go, so we went. Not, I hasten to say, with reckless abandon, but with all due speed, using the gears and the throttle and brakes, taking the best lines and just plain going as fast as we could safely go. On a good bike, that’s fast and okay, I enjoyed it.
Next morning we went to the track and I hiked up to the corkscrew, best place to see who’s really fast and who’s braver and better than his suspension. The Superbikes put on the best show, I think, because they sound right and look as if they really aren't supposed to be out there racing, which they aren’t, so the riders are visibly working at it. Real GP bikes are too good, on most tracks, which is why road racing isn't as much fun to watch as it should be.
Then I got a chance to fly the flag. Saturday evening at Laguna Seca is a party, hosted by a big company. Not a motorcycle manufacturer but a firm that gets lots of money from motorcycle people. They rent a country club in the midst of palatial estates, on private roads from which motorcycles are harmed.
Yes. It's long bothered me that the company does this. Private property is a good thing. Everybody has the right to make rules. But to meekly accept this rule against one’s own customers gets my goat. Are you gonna ride to the party? somebody asked. I don't know, I said. I am going to ride to the gate, with every intention of going to the party. If they turn me away, the sponsors will get a word from me.
Riding back to the hotel from the track, it was cold and wet. The fog comes in from the ocean. I was wearing slacks and a shirt. I had party clothes with me, make a good impression and like that. But. It seemed to me that I could wear my touring leathers, and be warm and dry and look like a biker (gasp! Right here at the country club!) or I could catch cold not offending people I didn't care much about anyway.
Leathers it was. Remember, the bike was sharp and clean. I was looking good. I rode up to the guard booth and the security man said “Are you a resident?"
Huh. I don't own a million-dollar estate but I looked as if 1 did. No, I answered, but I do have an invitation to the country club.
“Oh," he says, “well, go ahead. But or-> dinarily, motorcycles aren’t allowed.”
He couldn't resist, I guess. The name of this company isn’t printed here. The man who runs their program says he didn’t know about the ban and 1 believe him. But I have written an official protest, and if the rule and the party are still there next year, perhaps more of a fuss will be justified.
The party was great. Not only did a whole bunch of bikes show up, but 1 was the Grandest Tiger In the Jungle. Drugstore cowboy outfits were everywhere you looked. I was the best dressed man there, even got asked for the name of my tailor. (Goatskin jacket by Yamaha, matching pants from Clarice of Bates, boots by Paul Wheeler, Houston, Tex.)
Next morning, back to the track. I hung around for a while and realized I knew who was going to win. What 1 would rather do this summer Sunday was go riding. So I headed back down the highway, stopped for coffee at the hippie joint, cruised through the sunshine, zoomed through the curves, laid back as you can get without dissolving in your own satisfaction. Not fast, just enough speed so every 1 5 or 20 miles I caught a clump of cars stuck behind a motorhome then Whoosh! Can’t nothing touch a bike for that. Poor wide four-wheelers jam together, so when you zap a clump you can run free until the next clump, then Zap! again.
Got back to the regular highway and all those lost souls who’d been grinding to work on Friday were grinding home from the beach. Bumper to bumper, tempers and radiators at the boil, so I trickled on through, up the two-wheel freeway and home, early.
What 1 had been doing didn’t explain itself until a few days later. Did you notice the letter in last month’s issue, the one from the gal who’d been riding home from the races, had mechanical problems and got help? Made me very proud of us all.
When you ride a motorcycle you travel with bikers who’ll stop for each other, with outlaws who help search for missing parts, with racing mechanics happy to spare time for a fan, and with highway patrolmen who’ll machine you a part at 1 a.m.
When you ride, you travel right. @
